by Alex Connor
“Yes, he looked perfectly well. Mind you, I was talking to the girls for a while.” Oliver took in a breath, unnerved. “You said that one of them has gone missing. Which one?”
“Liza Frith. She’s very slim, blond.”
“I remember her; she was kind,” Oliver replied without elaborating. “Is she in danger?”
“She knows about the Hogarth, so yes.”
“And Kit Wilkes is in the Friars Hospital with a drug overdose. You think he was stopped before he could talk about the Hogarth?”
“I’m sure of it,” Victor replied. “Whoever did it worked fast. But were they fast enough?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Before Kit Wilkes was hospitalized he might not have had enough time to meet up with someone, but he did have enough time to pass on the news about the Hogarth.”
Breathing deeply to steady himself, Oliver looked at Victor. “Are you sure all this is about the painting?”
“Oh, yes; I’m certain.”
Troubled, Oliver fell silent. Should he confide? No, not yet. Perhaps later, when he might need Victor Ballam’s help. For the time being he would work alone, try to raise the half a million to buy back the Hogarth. One step at a time, Oliver told himself; take it one step at a time. Momentarily forgetting that Victor was there, he remembered the call girls, alive and talking. He could see Lim Chang working on his BlackBerry as clearly as though he were still sitting next to him. And he felt the same dizzying fear at hearing the name Hogarth.
He could imagine the towering disappointment of his grandfather and father and the contempt of the redoubtable Sir Nathaniel Overton. Was he, Oliver Peters, to be the man who failed? The keeper who dropped the flame? The trusted confidant who was found wanting? Had generations of his family protected the royal secret only for him to fail now?
Watching the man he had admired for years, Victor knew Oliver Peters was holding back. There was a sense of despair, of palpable regret, that hung over the dealer like a shroud.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me, Sir Oliver?”
Slowly he shook his head.
“Too many deaths, too many accidents for it to be a coincidence,” Victor repeated.
Unwilling to risk his voice, Oliver nodded. There had been too many deaths, and he was in the middle of the stew, trying to do a deal for a painting that had blood all over it.
Finally, he looked up. “I’m in danger, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Victor replied sadly. “I rather think you are.”
Thirty-Seven
ELIZABETH WILKES STARED AT THE STILL-LIFE PAINTING ON THE WALL of the office, her expression blank. She hadn’t visited Park Street for many years and found it changed. For all the discreetly new wallpaper and furnishings, there was the same distinct and palpable aura of sex. The pictures might be tasteful, but she knew that behind the soundproofed doors men were being relieved or humiliated; all the muted lamplight in the world could not romanticize the humping of paid sex.
Uneasy, she touched her hair several times as though to reassure herself that the expensive cut was in place, not cheapened by her surroundings. She even wondered momentarily if she should leave, then realized she couldn’t. Her son was dying. Or so his consultant had told her that morning. Her beloved Kit was barely alive, and without him there was nothing. No life, no future. Hearing a sound overhead, Elizabeth tensed, but no one came into the office, and after another moment she sat down, sighing nervously.
Perhaps she had been foolish to stop James Holden on the street in that way. But seeing him, portly and prosperous, had reminded her of her past. The disappointment of her failure underlined the anxiety she had over her son’s condition—their son’s condition—and she hoped desperately that Kit might activate some belated paternal response.
“What on earth” James Holden had expostulated, feeling someone touch his arm and turning to see who. “Elizabeth! I don’t wish to talk to you.”
Piqued, she had nonetheless fallen into step with him as he pounded toward Marylebone High Street. “We have to talk about Kit. I have to thank you—”
“Hah!”
“—for what you did. Getting him admitted to the Friars Hospital.” She had to hurry now, almost running to keep up with him. “How did you know he was ill?”
Arriving at the traffic lights, James had been forced to stop walking but had kept his gaze averted from his ex-lover.
“A friend of your son’s—”
“Our son.”
“—contacted me. Look, I only acted out of common decency, not paternal concern. I did what I thought was for the best.”
“And what would look right if it came out in the press.”
“Oh, think what you like!” he had snapped, “but I don’t want to be drawn into this anymore. You know that, and if you don’t, you should. I don’t want any contact with you or that young man.”
“He’s dying.”
“I doubt it,” James had replied, pulling down the bottom of his waistcoat and staring ahead. “He’s just taken an overdose. Addicts do that, I hear. Doctor Fountain is hopeful that he might recover in time. No doubt he’ll soon be back to talking to the press about this latest scandal.”
“Kit is dying,” Elizabeth had repeated. “He’s in a coma.”
Exasperated, James had finally turned to face her. He saw a handsome woman but felt no attraction to her. Her demands and the appalling behavior of her son had made him loathe them both. How he had been made to pay for his affair; how he had danced to the mockery of the tabloids and the eternal postings on the Web. No one—not even his most bitter political enemies—could have employed such determined and constant battery. That he was still respected in some quarters, still in the running for an honor, was little short of a miracle. And now Kit Wilkes—the tick that had burrowed under his skin for decades—had been silenced.
And he was supposed to care?
“Elizabeth, there is nothing more I can—or am willing—to do.”
“But if Kit dies …”
“It will be a tragedy, but a self-made tragedy,” he’d said coldly.
Remembering those words, Elizabeth shuddered. There had been something in James Holden’s tone that had worried her. Nothing obvious but something under the words that prickled and tickled like a burr. Had it been relief? She cringed. Had she overplayed her hand? Had her encouragement of her son’s vitriol backfired? Surely a father couldn’t welcome his child’s death. Surely not even a harried, humiliated father could see it as a deliverance. Elizabeth stared at the handbag on her lap. Bottega Veneta; so expensive, so divinely exquisite. If Kit died, how would she afford such luxuries? How could she run the gallery without his input? His punishing skill? How could she maintain her livelihood or her status if Kit perished?
And just who, she wondered, had told Holden about her son’s overdose? Elizabeth should have asked him for a name, demanded one. Who had been with Kit when he was taken ill? Ronan Levy? Her thoughts tangled themselves as she remembered what Ronan had said at the hospital, how insistent he had been that Kit’s condition was not accidental.
“He knows his limitations…. Kit’s always in control. He looks after himself.”
“So someone did this to him?”
“Someone must have. Kit was a different person when he came back to London.”
When he came back to London … on a private jet owned by Bernie Freeland, the same Bernie Freeland who had been killed so coincidentally a day later. Unnerved, Elizabeth jumped as the door opened and Charlene Fleet walked in. Behind her came the dog, which settled beside her at her feet as she sat down opposite Elizabeth. Having not seen her for many years, Elizabeth was struck by her confidence and her looks, subtly assisted by surgery. Her hands were the only clue to her hard beginnings. Always rather large, they were clumsy for a slim woman and bare of jewelry as though any ornament would draw attention to them.
Elizabeth remembered Charlene Fleet’s hands well.
�
�How are you? I haven’t seen you for a long time,” Mrs. Fleet said.
“My son is very ill, in a coma.”
“Really? How sad.”
Elizabeth faltered for a moment, then drove on. “I’ve been hearing some very strange things.”
“You should never listen to gossip.”
“Apparently my son was given a lift on a plane owned by Bernie Freeland.”
Nothing changed in Mrs. Fleet’s expression. “Poor Mr. Freeland. He was killed in a traffic accident, you know.”
“I heard.”
“But then you knew him rather well, didn’t you?” she asked, looking coolly at Elizabeth. “When you were working for me. You were one of my best girls, you know, always very popular. It was a shame you left the profession.”
A chilly silence descended and hung over the two women before Elizabeth replied.
“I wanted to get out of the business as soon as I could.”
“With as much as you could.”
“I won’t deny it,” Elizabeth said, conscious of the other woman’s hostility. “I wanted to make money. We both did, Charlene.”
Smiling, Mrs. Fleet looked around the room, her gaze settling briefly on the view outside the window. She was inordinately pleased with her success, with her power even more than her money. Long gone were the days when she had been at the mercy of others—men and women. Long gone, left in Scotland Road and Liverpool, where she had kept a knife in her pocket for protection. No one knew where Mrs. Fleet had originated. Her past had been obliterated by a series of clever moves and meticulous attention to detail. With savage ruthlessness, she had cut off any ties to her earlier life and perfected her cover. No one knew who she was, where she had come from, or what she had done.
Except the woman sitting opposite her now.
“So why are you here, Elizabeth?”
“Something happened on that flight, and you had girls working it.”
“So?”
“I want to talk to them.”
“Really!” Mrs. Fleet replied, shocked by the sheer nerve of the request. “Well, they’re unavailable.”
“Are they here?”
“No.”
“Well, where are they?”
Mrs. Fleet took in a long breath.
“If you must know, one of those girls has been murdered.”
Elizabeth blinked, her mind processing the information. But she knew enough about Mrs. Fleet to suspect the account and she immediately questioned it.
“When?”
“The evening after her trip with Bernie Freeland.”
“Odd, isn’t it, that Freeland was killed too?” Elizabeth parried. “And that my son was admitted to the hospital just hours after he got off the same flight.” She held her nerve, facing up to Mrs. Fleet. “What really happened on that plane?”
“Nothing as far as I know.”
“Liar.” Elizabeth was afraid of Mrs. Fleet but more terrified of losing her son. “Kit is dying.”
“That has nothing to do with me. You had a good run, God knows. You and I worked out a very clever plan which you’ve benefited from for years. I organized a life for you, Elizabeth—a cushy life. Don’t come crying to me now that your luck’s run out.”
Elizabeth was losing her grip. She fought to keep control but couldn’t stop herself from hissing, “I know about you.”
“And I know about you. All the things you wouldn’t want other people to know,” Mrs. Fleet replied. “Remember that.”
“I know where you came from, who you are.”
“Yes, you do.” Her composure was terrifying. “Well, Elizabeth, you blackmailed me once and I went along with it, but I didn’t have the same power then. Didn’t have much power at all—then. It was lucky that James Holden was a client of mine. You got a good living out of him by passing your bastard off as his. It’s a shame that Bernie Freeland never knew he had a son without learning difficulties.”
Flushing, Elizabeth gripped the bag on her lap, her nails scraping the leather.
“You can’t tell anyone now!”
“I don’t need to,” Mrs. Fleet replied. “If your son dies, your life’s finished anyway. You’re nothing without Kit Wilkes. Nothing without your hold over James Holden. I wonder what he’d say if he knew that he’d been cheated? That Kit Wilkes, who’s tormented him for years, isn’t really his son? It could turn a man’s mind, something like that. To think of all he’s suffered, all the humiliation. His wife’s tolerance, his party’s pity, his ambitions constantly thwarted by embarrassing disclosures and mockery. And for what? A lie. Poor James Holden, suffering—and paying—for another man’s kid.” She sighed, the sound empty, lethal. “Don’t get in my way, Elizabeth. Not this time. You’re out of your class.”
But Elizabeth, her voice shaking, still pushed her. “What happened on that flight?”
“Nothing more than I told you. Your son overdosed; that’s all.”
“I don’t believe you,” Elizabeth said. She rose and moved toward the door. “I’m going to get someone to look into this.”
Mrs. Fleet was on her feet instantly, catching hold of the other woman’s arm and tightening her grip. Her face was only inches from Elizabeth’s, her voice threatening.
“Take me on and you’ll lose,” she hissed. “You think you know me? You did when we were children, when I was young. Well, now I’ve had years to learn how this world runs, and there’s no one I’m afraid of and no one who can touch me. People fear me now. I have power you can’t imagine, Elizabeth, so don’t begin a fight you can only lose.” She let go off her arm and stepped back. “Now, get out.”
“My son—”
“Needs you. So I’d go back to the hospital right away, Elizabeth. Sit at his bedside, be the good mother.” She paused, all the malice of years in her voice. “After all, you were never much of a sister, were you?”
Thirty-Eight
“DOES IT LOOK LIKE YOU CAN TALK TO HIM?” RONAN LEVY ASKED, turning from Victor to the immobile figure on the bed. “Kit’s in a coma.”
“I know. I didn’t want to talk to him; I wanted to talk to you.”
“Me? Who the hell are you?”
“Someone who isn’t convinced about Kit Wilkes’s overdose.”
“Did his mother send you?”
“No. I’ve never met Elizabeth Wilkes.”
“She was here a few days ago, but then she backed off. Until this morning, and then she was fussing over him like she cared. Some mother, hey?” Ronan was fiddling with the gold ring in his ear, wary, suspicious. “Are you police?”
“No.”
“Thought not. She wouldn’t call the police in even after what I told her.” He paused, suspended between disbelief and anger. “I care about Kit. Really care. More than she does.”
“How did you two meet?”
“I was in a band, and Kit saw us playing some club.” Ronan paused. “He just came over and said he’d like to fuck. Then he passed me a card with the name of a Dr. Eli Fountain on it. I went to see him and got the all clear.”
“You didn’t mind?”
Ronan shrugged. “The gay scene’s dangerous. In a way I was glad to know he was careful. Kit never takes chances. Which is why he’d never overdose. He’s too cautious.”
Following Ronan’s gaze, Victor stared at the inert figure in the hospital bed. How you would have crowed about the Hogarth, he thought. What a brilliant way to embarrass your social-climbing father. And what a coup for your own career. Staring at the closed eyelids, Victor found the ambiguity of the figure, his stillness underlying the menace of his character, compelling and fascinating.
“Can you see how extraordinary he is?” Ronan asked, sighing. “There’s always one person like that in your life, isn’t there?”
Like Ingola, Victor thought uncomfortably. On his return to London, Tully had told him that she had called twice, asking where he was. Tully hadn’t seemed surprised. But then, why should he be? They had known each other for years.
/> Hurriedly he pushed the thought aside.
“Did Kit mention any new purchase he had made? A special painting?”
“No, nothing. He said Hong Kong had been a waste of time.” Ronan paused, remembering. “But he did seem a bit hyped up. I didn’t press him about work. I was just glad he was home.”
“And he said nothing about the flight?”
“No, although I don’t believe that Bernie Freeland’s death was an accident.”
“You know about that?”
“Oh, yeah. But it’s all too much of a coincidence, isn’t it? What with Kit being drugged … Look, I want to help you; I want to help him. But I don’t know anything. I don’t know what happened. I just know something did. Kit wasn’t the same since he came back to London. He mentioned Guy Manners, said they were going to talk about doing business.”
Victor had known Guy Manners and his florid reputation in the past. No one was surprised when his adoptive family had disowned their ungrateful cuckoo; his enthusiastic criminality had been almost expected. Yet for all that, Victor had always thought of Manners as a lost soul, believed that under the bravado was a drifter, a misfit in the art world.
Victor frowned. “What kind of business?”
“Kit didn’t say, but he took his so-called overdose only hours after he got home. I thought he was sleeping, and when I went in to unpack his bag, I found him.” He scrutinized Victor, then asked, “Were you on that plane?”
“No,” he replied, and changed the subject. “D’you know someone called Mrs. Fleet? Charlene Fleet?”
“I only know of her. Don’t tell me Kit’s used her services.”
“I’m not suggesting that, but three of her call girls were on the flight with him, and two are now dead.”
Ronan tipped his head to one side, looking quizzically at Victor. “Who are you working for?”
“Myself. I was hired by someone, but I’m on my own now.”
He thought of the two latest messages left by Mrs. Fleet, which, like all the others, he had ignored, and wondered how long it would be before she heard he was back in London. Would she come after him or send someone? Victor didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to report back personally. Let her discover that her plan hadn’t worked. If she was after the Hogarth and determined to get rid of anyone who knew about it, he was going to stay as far out of her reach as possible.